Nachos
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Takes place sometime after No More Mr Nice Guy...House and Chase bet on their bowling scores, and the stakes are high. Slashy but not graphic.


**Nachos**

It starts with a bet that House obviously thinks is a sure thing. He and Chase have gotten together for what House touted as an evening of beer and bowling, although House is the only one drinking beer. Chase has a wine cooler from the concession stand and a plate of nachos that House is eyeing with avarice.

"I think a little wager would make the game more fun," he says, swiping a handful of nachos as Chase laces up his shoes.

The younger man looks up, a shock of tawny hair falling over his eyes. "How could I have forgotten your gambling addiction--in addition to the rest of your vices?"

"Sometimes pills, booze and kinky sex just isn't enough."

Chase dons his best smirk for the occasion. "What did you have in mind?" He imbues the question with enough innuendo to suggest that kinky sex isn't out of the question, but House has other ideas.

"Clinic hours. One per pin. Say I score a hundred and you score sixty. You'd owe me forty hours."

Chase laughs and stands up. The blue-striped polo shirt he's wearing clings to his slim frame, and he catches House staring at the way his jeans are practically molded to his ass. House is a genius, but he can be distracted by nachos and eye candy, and Chase is providing both.

"Yes, but what would we do if I won? I don't need anyone to do my clinic hours--oddly enough, I do them myself." House gargles like he's got phlegm in his throat at such folly. "I've got it--how about time in bed? I'd be in charge."

_That _earns him a long look, but Chase is well past the days when House's gaze made his soul shrivel with insecurity. "Five minutes per pin. If you score sixty, and I score a hundred, that's--"

"Two hundred minutes. Or three hours, twenty minutes. Or twelve thousand seconds. In your dreams, Chase."

"Too bad. Guess we'll just have to play for sport." He reaches into his bag, pulls out his glove.

"Not so fast. I didn't say no." He's standing close enough to Chase for the younger man to smell fabric softener on his on Pink Floyd tee shirt and beer on his breath. "Because the clinic needs somebody, and it's not going to be me."

"Shake on it," says Chase, holding out his hand. _Because I need someone...and it _IS _going to be you..._Once they've sealed the deal, House cackles with malevolent glee. "Sucker!"

"Well, one of us is going to be sucking something," replies Chase, sounding almost guileless. He bowls a strike on the first frame-- House rolls a gutter ball on his first attempt, then scores two pins.

"Forty minutes," the early leader remarks cheerfully. He stretches as he picks his ball up from the return, aware that House is eyeing him again and wondering if the older man might throw the game just to see what he'll do. _Nah, I don't think he likes me more than he hates the clinic._

Predictably, House mooches nachos every time Chase goes up to roll. He gets four broken chips, total, only one of which has any cheese on it at all.

Chase bowls 300. House bowls 54.

"What do you know?" he drawls, adjusting his glove. "Dreams do come true. Two hundred forty-six points...let's see, that's twenty and one-half hours. Or one thousand, two hundred thirty minutes. Or--"

His calculations are interrupted as colored lights begin flashing and the overhead speakers start blaring the theme from _Rocky_. "We have a perfect game!" announces a disembodied voice. "A perfect game on Lane 4! Congratulations, you win our deluxe package for scoring a perfect game in non-league play!"

To Chase's chagrin, an employee of the bowling alley waddles over with an envelope and a "trophy". The trophy is a retired tenpin, spray-painted gold, and the envelope contains a certificate entitling the bearer to six free games. The over-loud music dies away and the lights resume normal settings.

House looks disgusted. "Double or nothing!" he dares his former fellow. "I'm just getting warmed up."

"You're on," Chase agrees, setting the golden pin down beside his bowling bag and tucking the envelope inside. "I'm on a roll."

"Are you going to get more nachos?"

Chase affects surprise. "How can you think of nachos at a time like this?" _Time to make him sweat._ He sticks his butt out more than is necessary to pick up his ball, and the victory dance he does at the ensuing strike has a distinct pelvic thrust to it.

Without the lure of snack food, the second game is slightly less dramatic: Chase scores 298 to House's 68, adding 19 hours and 15 minutes to House's penalty period. "That gives us a grand total of thirty-nine hours, forty-five minutes." proclaims Chase. "Care to try again?"

House glowers. He lowers himself onto one of the molded plastic benches. He's been limping badly the last few frames, as well as rolling non-stop gutter balls.

"Did I ever mention I was the Parish Youth League champion two years running?" He brushes his fingers against the little medal hanging by a chain from the handle of his bag, remembering those long-ago Saturdays. One side shows a bowler in the act of releasing the ball, and the other side is inscribed with a prayer: "May the Good Lord help me to reach my goal of a perfect score each time I bowl."

"I don't think it was on your resume." House is taking his shoes off, and he looks up at Chase, shaking his head. "Hustled by my own fellow. Ex-fellow. Whatever."

"I'll expect you at my place on Saturday morning," Chase tells him as he carefully towels the oil from his ball before packing it away. He zips the bag closed, nestles the trophy under his arm and smiles. _This is definitely going to one-up Cameron._ "Be ready to stay the weekend."

"What, you're going to share me with Cameron? Or should I say, share Cameron with me?"

"Neither of the above. We aren't cohabiting. She has a lease, and I like having my own space." He takes the last swallow of his wine cooler and picks up the detritus littering their station. "And House? Next time, buy your own nachos."

* * *


End file.
